Surrender
by Dasque
Summary: Answer to Cheeky Monkey Challenge: A "Real" Happy Ending for Warden & Alistair. So I've gone and given away the ending. Hope you like it, anyway ;
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **_This story is an answer to a Cheeky Monkey challenge set by Eva Galana. The challenge was issued as follows: _Write a story - one shot, several chapters, full length novel, whatever - where the 'true' happy ending is merely Alistair with his Warden**.** The only specifics for this challenge are: 1. There has to be a happy ending (Alistair with his Warden love). 2. Alistair is NOT King.

_I'll admit, this challenge got away from me, and it's now coming to you in 7 chapters. *sigh*. I am LONG-WINDED._

_Anyway, entire story is beta'd by the invincible Mackillian. Enjoy :)_

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><p><strong>Surrender<strong>

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The new recruit was... not what he was expecting.

First of all, she was an elf, and a _she_, and also unlike any _she _he'd ever seen before in his life. As if the tattoos of swirling vines that climbed down the right side of her face and neck weren't strange enough to his sheltered sensibilities, they disappeared into the low neckline of her leather armor, which was not only cut to be _very _distracting, but also didn't seem to serve much purpose.

Nothing like charging into battle with your _entire midriff _exposed.

Her rich brown hair was swept back and elaborately braided with little charms and beads that glinted in the sun as they cascaded down soft curls that fell to the center of her back. Her eyes were so dark they appeared nearly black, delicate black eyebrows slashing across fair skin, and, as far as he'd seen, drawn together in a perpetual frown.

She regarded the Warden Commander with no particular esteem, and _him_ with no particular interest, the distance in those eyes only overridden by an unnatural glossiness in her stare. Alistair didn't have to touch her to know her skin would be fevered, as well. They didn't have much time if they wanted to save her from the poison that crawled in her veins—the fact that she hadn't succumbed already was pretty remarkable.

She shifted impatiently through Duncan's explanation of the mission, standing apart from the others with her arms crossed tightly beneath her breasts, seemingly unsure of which one of them she wanted to glare at more. Duncan had already warned him that she was there against her will, by order of her Keeper, but Alistair had still somehow not expected her to be quite so... _hostile_.

Later, when they found the wounded soldier in the Wilds and she snapped that they didn't have time to save him, Alistair was just short-tempered enough to retort, "What, you have another appointment or something?" before he could stop himself. A glance at her fevered eyes was reminder enough to make him feel like the worst kind of fool to forget the situation that she was in.

After the man was on his way, he made an attempt to apologize for his careless remark. She was just alone and probably frightened, and being eaten away from the inside by an illness she likely didn't even know existed until it had infected her. A little kindness couldn't hurt, and might help her sheathe her claws around him. "We still have time, you know. Duncan wouldn't have sent you on this errand if he didn't know you could handle it."

"I have no memory of asking for your opinion, _shem_."

Never mind.

...

"It occurs to me I don't know your name."

Alistair had decided not to try to speak to the woman again, at least not without Duncan there to serve as a buffer, but as usual, his mouth had ideas entirely separate from the ones in his head.

She glanced over her shoulder, moving swiftly and gracefully through this patch of smelly swamp that led to nowhere, while the rest of them stumbled behind, apparently eager to get back to Ostagar. She still wore the same bored expression she had worn since leaving the camp, though it was admittedly an improvement over her glower. "It took you this long to realize as much?"

He ground his teeth together. "Well, in my defense, you've never bothered to call me anything but _shem_, so I didn't think we were name friends just yet."

Her expression changed only marginally, but he thought, for a moment, that she might have been trying not to smile. "Name friends?"

"Yes. It's the relationship just above not-punching friends, but not quite as high as conversation friends."

"I see." The smile was definitely there—just a subtle curving to her full lips that she was trying to keep hidden. "Is this a habit, to define relationships by hierarchy?"

It was impossible to tell if she was being serious or not, with that strange, formal speech of hers. "Doesn't everyone?"

The smile was abruptly gone, as though she had just remembered who it was she was talking to. "To categorize people by easily defined expectations? No, that is most assuredly a human trait."

"Because Maker knows you haven't made any preconceptions of your own here." Alistair hadn't meant to say it out loud, but he couldn't deny he was a little proud of himself for having done so. He had decided he was done putting up with random abuse the moment he left the Chantry, although he hadn't really followed through on that conviction as of yet. At least, not until he met _her._

She was quiet for a long time. He began to think she had just decided to ignore him entirely, which, he had to admit, probably wasn't such a bad idea. She surprised him, turning to him just before they entered the gate, though she didn't quite meet his eyes. "I'm called Lyna," she said at last.

...

Alistair didn't claim to be the leading authority on—well, anything, really—but he at least knew weapons, and the way in which people treated them. As he paced under the archway, impatient to hear the horns that would signal the start of battle, he watched the way the Dalish checked her arrows, examining the missiles for any sign of damage or flaw. Her bow rested on her ground at her side. It was a beautiful weapon, intricately carved with the same pattern of looping vines that she wore on her face, and obviously well cared for. The wood held the soft glow of frequent polish; the soft, supple leather that served as a grip was clean and tightly wound in place. He had already witnessed the way she handled herself in battle; she was certainly no novice, but it was the evidence of an honest respect for the weapon that intrigued him.

"Does archery interest you?"

He nearly jumped at the question. She hadn't even looked up from her work. He fumbled for a reply for a moment, caught off guard both by the knowledge she had been aware of him staring at her as well as the fact that this was the first time she had bothered to initiate a conversation with him. "It does." He gave her a crooked smile. "But mostly because I'm really bad at it."

"Did they not offer such training in your Chantry?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Some."

"It is a useful skill that you would do well to learn. Brutish weapons like swords are of little use in, say, hunting."

"That would depend on what you were hunting, wouldn't it? Bows don't do so well against apostates, or so I'm told, and that was all they were really interested in teaching me. And I'm not _that _bad at it. I do okay. So long as the target is still. And there's no wind. And I have at least a full minute to take aim."

She made a noise beneath her breath—it took him a startled moment to realize it was a hint of a laugh. "I apologize. I didn't mean for that to sound quite as condescending as it did. I simply love the artistry of mastering the bow. Members of my clan that favored the sword, as you do, were always willing to point out that I could be a bit of a snob about it."

_I can't imagine why_, he thought wryly, though was wise enough to keep that thought to himself. It was another piece to the ever-growing puzzle that was Lyna. She had yet to warm to him even a little, but at least her sulking glares were occurring less frequently since her Joining. Alistair had to wonder just how much the Taint had been affecting her personality. It wasn't something he had bothered to consider before now.

"If you have something to ask me, I would prefer that you do so. I find your hovering slightly unnerving."

"Oh! Sorry." He had been staring again. He quickly dropped his eyes and resumed his pacing, eager to be out of this awkward situation and _doing _something. He strongly suspected he knew _why _he had been left behind, but Cailan's late concern for his well-being was unwelcome and more than a little annoying. He wasn't good at being sheltered.

"You seem even more animated than usual."

"Do I? Well, epic battle, raging darkspawn, and everyone I know down there fighting without me. Little things like that have a tendency to make me antsy."

She finally glanced up at him, her eyes narrowed in curiosity. "Are you always so candid with your cynicism?"

"No. Sometimes I'm ironic about it."

The horns finally sounded in the distance, much to his relief. Lyna didn't answer him, picking up her bow and marching ahead as though he weren't even there. Alistair shook his head, muttering beneath his breath, "I guess the Dalish also don't have much of a sense of humor."

"Humor, yes," she said over her shoulder, making him start in surprise. Maker's breath, she had ears like a _bat_. "The need to use it to disguise who we really are? No. _That _we do not suffer from."

...

A swollen moon hung low in the sky, casting the landscape below in a ghostly light despite the late hour. Alistair huddled deeper into his cloak, but nothing could stave off the chill that filled him to his very bones. It had been three days since the defeat at Ostagar, and still, he his surroundings felt surreal and foreign, edges and details as blurred and gauzy as a dream.

He only wished he could wake up.

When he heard Lyna approaching, he knew she was being courteous with heavy steps so as not to startle him, but still he flinched a little when her hands abruptly appeared at his shoulders, draping a blanket there. "You'll freeze, sitting out in this wind," she said, sitting down next to him. She was wrapped in her own blanket, looking at him with undisguised concern in her eyes.

He wasn't sure why she was being so nice to him, but it made him uneasy. "Thanks," he mumbled, pulling the blanket tighter, though it was for her peace of mind than any concern for his own comfort. Frankly, he just wanted her to go away. He wasn't in much of a mood for company, certain that it wouldn't take much of her blunt honesty to set him off.

He wasn't wrong.

"I doubt if your Duncan would have meant for you to grieve this way."

"You didn't know anything about him." He heard the harshness of his voice, but was too numb to care. The Dalish had never shown anything other than mild disdain for their late Commander. She had no business trying to mourn him now.

Instead of growing angry, Lyna only sighed. She looked up at the sky, the stars shining in her impossibly dark eyes, and he got the feeling she was seeing something much further away, something beyond their reach. "No, I didn't. And I cannot pretend to know what you are suffering. But I am familiar with what it is like, to have your clan taken from you," she said, very softly.

For long into the night, they sat alone on the hill in silence, and though Lyna stayed at his side, Alistair had never felt more alone.

...

"What is _wrong_ with you?" Alistair was aware of the shocked looks he got when he reached out and grabbed Lyna by the arm, spinning her around to face him. The refugees camped outside the Lothering Chantry backed up a step, apparently convinced such a foolhardy act of bravery would end badly for him.

The flash in her eyes and the way her hands curled into fists at her side made him pretty sure they weren't over-reacting, either.

"Take your hand off of me."

"You don't just march in and start threatening a Revered Mother_. _Maker's breath, is _talking_ to someone such a foreign concept to you?"

"Take your hand from me or I'll do it for you." She jerked free of his grip, surprisingly strong for her slender frame. "I have been taken away from my home, deliberately poisoned, been left to die by a shem lord I know nothing of, and now I am expected to stop a mad Old God without so much as the simplest of instruction on how to do so, and you dare to lecture me about how I _behave_?" It was the most emotion he had seen from her yet, and he doubted he would have had an answer ready even if he wasn't convinced she was about to try to slit his throat. Instead, she pointed at the gaping onlookers, lowering her voice to a hiss. "They look on me with nothing but fear and revulsion, no matter how I chose to conduct myself. Even a hint of restraint and they have it fixed in their minds that I'm a flat-ear dog to be kicked at for their own amusement. I'd rather die."

"And you will, if you keep pissing off everyone we come across." He stepped closer, towering over her. It was hard to remember, sometimes, just how small she really was, since she strutted around like she was ten feet tall. "You're going to get us _both_ killed if you don't bring it down a notch."

She laughed bitterly. "This is _your_ world. What reason would they have to turn on you?"

"I'm every bit as wanted as you are, the last I checked. Why don't we go ask Loghain which one of us he'd rather seen in irons? Because I'm guessing he doesn't care much either way."

She opened her mouth to retort, but couldn't think of anything to say, and snapped it shut with a sharp _click_ before she whirled around and stalked away from him. Alistair shook his head, gave the onlookers his best nothing-to-see-here-folks look, and followed after her, thoroughly convinced that the Maker was laughing at him the entire way.

...

"I fear I was not very fair to you, earlier today."

He nearly sliced his hand open on the dagger he was sharpening. He fumbled for a moment, hands grappling to catch the weapon and the stone before he dropped them completely. That accomplished, he looked up to see her standing over him, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

"You did that on purpose."

She laughed—an actual laugh, which was a sound he had begun to doubt she was capable of. He wasn't even entirely certain until that point she had _teeth_. "I didn't. I am not considered very quiet, where I am from." Her face fell slightly, and she sat down beside him, keeping her eyes on the fire. Alistair got the impression she had some sort of an internal struggle with herself before she finally spoke again. "I realize that you have not been given any reason to see me differently, but I can tell you, I have not been... myself, of late. There were those in my clan who believed me to be too blunt, at times, chiding me for my lack of restraint. I think you can sympathize."

He snorted and went back to work. "Me? Never."

"Yet, I was not hated, like I am here. I am not used to being despised." He glanced up at the quiet confession, but she was looking at her hands, still unwilling to meet his eyes. "If you had marched into my camp and threatened my Keeper, I would have filled you with arrows without a second thought. And yet, you try to make me understand what it is about me that offends you so. There is courtesy in that, I suppose."

"You don't offend me, Lyna." She finally looked at him, raising an eyebrow, and he chuckled to himself. "Okay, so, that's not _entirely _true. But I don't hate you. And the only time you offend me is when you're doing it _deliberately_."

She dropped her eyes again. "As I said, I don't believe I have been very fair to you."

Alistair sighed and shoved a hand through his hair, idly wondering if all women were this complicated or if he was just marked out by the Maker for torment. "We're in this together, you know. It wouldn't be completely ridiculous for us to try being friends."

She looked at him for a long time, studying him as if she were seeing him for the first time. "I think I would like that very much... Alistair."


	2. Chapter 2

**Surrender**

_Part Two_

_._

_._

"I will not kill a child."

The room fell silent, the heated argument still ringing in his ears, but Lyna's quiet refusal seemed louder than any of the other passionate opinions clamoring to be heard. She wasn't angry, instead standing casually with her arms crossed loosely beneath her breasts. Yet, Alistair saw the glint in her eyes, the strong set to her shoulders, like she was digging her heels into stone, and got the impression she wasn't going to be persuaded to change her mind about this.

He wished he could feel the same level of conviction. His heart was torn in half, sick to his soul at the idea of hurting a little boy. But, Connor wasn't a little boy anymore… he was an abomination…

He heard his own unspoken doubts voiced by Sten, the qunari's low-pitched objection echoing a now-familiar disgust at Lyna's foolishness. She met the terrifying man's glare without flinching, her voice just as soft—and just as firm—as before. "I will not kill a child."

Alistair couldn't deny that he breathed a little easier with the decision out of his hands, even if her refusal to budge ended up damning them all. He certainly wasn't willing to shoulder the burden of murdering an innocent, and he wouldn't pressure her to do it, either.

When the blood mage she had released, despite Alistair's protests, brought up his solution, Alistair was much more inclined to speak up. Bringing more evil down on them certainly wasn't going to _help_.

As it turned out, however, he needn't have bothered. Lyna was quiet for a moment before she shook her head, the charms in her hair clinking softly together like music in the stillness.

"No. I would not resort to blood magic unless absolutely necessary. Even among my people, we are warned of the dangers of the forbidden powers." She turned to Alistair. "What of your mages? Surely they have a supply of this… lyrium… that the boy speaks of. Would they not help, were we to ask?"

"_That _is an excellent point," he said, surprised that no one else had thought of it. Being trapped in this room, seeing the horrors of untrained magic unleashed all around them—he didn't think _any _of them were thinking very clearly. "The Circle Tower isn't far from here. It's only a day's journey across the lake."

"What about Connor? He will not stay passive forever!" Isolde's whimper screeched across his nerves like nails on a slate. He had a fleeting, unkind thought that Eamon's coma might be nothing more than a desperate attempt to escape her constant _whining_.

He immediately felt guilty for even having such thoughts about such a dire situation. Morrigan must have been rubbing off on him.

Lyna gave the arlessa a long, searching look. "It is the only option left to us. A moment ago, you were prepared to die. Why this sudden fear?"

"The risk to Connor is too much, to just leave him alone here. Do the ritual. Save him now."

Lyna raised an eyebrow, her crossed arms tightening into something marginally more aggressive. "I will request that Morrigan remain here, to keep watch over the child and ensure that he does not harm anyone else. The blood magic ritual is far too dangerous. Such magics tend to draw on the energies around them, and those within this stone tent are distressed enough to make such a working unstable, I believe." She glanced at Morrigan, who nodded, almost imperceptibly, in confirmation. "You see? It would accomplish nothing, except to make you feel you have redeemed your past actions, when you have done nothing of the sort."

Teagan looked shocked. Isolde looked outraged. Alistair decided that somewhere along the line, his sense of humor must have slipped into something truly perverse, because he had to cough to hide his smile.

…

The long, winding stairway that led to the entrance of the Circle Tower might have seemed peaceful and utterly dull to anyone else climbing it, but to Alistair's Templar-trained senses, the journey to the main floor was… unsettling. Everything was too quiet, too still, leaving behind a hollow void where the tingle of magic should have existed. The unnatural sense of foreboding grew heavier with each step, until he was outright _jittery_, looking around for any sign of life, or at least some clues as to what was making him so nervous.

Something was very, very wrong here.

Lyna was also glancing around, but without any kind of magical training, she didn't feel the same sense of imbalance that enveloped him. Her focus was on another matter entirely. "The mages? Why are they here?"

"They grow up here," he said, still distracted in his concentration on the floors above. Over the past few days, he had Lyna had not exactly become friends, but she spoke to him more than she had before, and seemed to at least regard him as at least marginally useful. She treated him as a kind of constant source of information for the aspects of Ferelden she was unfamiliar with, like a walking book of lore—easily accessible, and just as easily set aside when she didn't need it. He had become so used to answering her many questions, he barely had to think about it anymore. "They're brought here as children. It's their home."

"But I don't understand. Why are they caged like this?"

_That _got his attention. He glanced sharply in her direction, but she was honestly curious, her eyes free of accusation or judgment. Accustomed to a life where she could pack up and move away from any location that didn't suit her or her clan, she genuinely didn't understand the reasoning behind something her people would perceive as cruelty.

Alistair found himself at a loss. In seeing Lyna, a woman as wild as nature itself and yet wholly honest, all of the reasons the Chantry had driven into his head suddenly seemed inadequate and… well, _stupid_.

He tried, anyway. "It's not a cage. It's just… mages are dangerous, even if they don't mean to be. It's safer for them this way. I doubt many of them would leave, even given the opportunity. It's all they know. You saw what happened with Connor."

"The woman back at the castle did this because she feared sending him to this place."

"Yeees…"

Lyna considered that before she extended her arm, revealing a row of white, dotted scars on the inside of her elbow. She gave him a wry smile. "A fox accidentally stumbled into a snare I had set one night while hunting. When I tried to free the poor thing, it bit me." She sighed, looking up at the high, magnificent walls and towering statues with sadness in her eyes. "All living things are dangerous while they thrash about, trying to find freedom."

…

"The elder mage does not approve of me."

Alistair wasn't sure why Lyna was surprised by this, or why it bothered her—or why she was coming to him about it, for that matter. He barely understood the way women thought on a good day, let alone while he was creeping along a destroyed hallway, watching for abominations. He glanced down at her, trying to figure out her mood before he answered. Her eyebrows were drawn together, her mouth set in what could only be described as a pout.

It was… kind of adorable, actually.

"Well, in her defense, you did know her for all of about thirty seconds before you threatened to cut out her tongue."

"She was disrespectful."

"Yes, she demanded your name. The old hussy."

She crossed her arms, her pout growing more pronounced as she watched Leliana and Wynne walking ahead of them, absorbed in quiet conversation. Alistair had to fight to keep from smiling. He doubted Lyna would have appreciated it.

"I have already given my apologies," she said. He could swear she was almost sulking. "She simply startled me. What does she anticipate will happen when she demands answers, and offers naught in return but threats?"

Now he _did _smile. "Give her time. If I can get used to your knee-jerk reactions, you have a fighting chance that Wynne can, as well."

A noise drifting into the hall from a room up ahead stopped them both in their tracks. Alistair listened as closely as he was able, but he could make out nothing except a low mutter of sound that was impossible to distinguish. Lyna, however, pulled at his arm to bring him down to her height, leaning over to whisper in his ear. "Humans. Heavy footsteps. They sound as though they are fully armored."

"Templars." Alistair adjusted the shield on his arm and hissed a warning to the two women walking ahead of them, waving them back over. "They might be possessed. Could you tell how many there were?"

"At least four. We hold the element of surprise."

He shook his head. "Too dangerous. The doorway provides them with the opportunity to pick us off one at a time." He thought for a moment. "I can't move up without them hearing me. But if you sneak ahead, you could try to draw them out to us. Just make sure you get behind me as quickly as possible."

Lyna tilted her head, her eyes narrowed in confusion. "You wish me to lure them out here? How?"

Alistair had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing and giving them away. "Lyna, I have full confidence in you. There is _no one_ you can't piss off."

…

He had been trying very hard for the last hour not to look at Lyna, too aware of how often her dark eyes wandered his way, filled with silent wondering. He didn't know what she had seen in the Fade with the others, and didn't particularly care. He only knew when she had appeared to drag him away from the secret dream that had haunted him most of his life, she had definitely seen too much. The knowledge that he had been tricked by a demon was humiliating enough without his emotionally inconsistent companion being witness to it. The entire experience was just uncomfortable, and so he fell back on his old defense of pretending it didn't happen and hoping it would go away.

It didn't work.

He really needed a new defense.

"That woman, in your vision. She was…"

"No one important."

Lyna turned to say something, but quickly looked away from whatever expression he wore, biting her lip. She was quiet for a long time. Alistair got the sudden, uncomfortable impression that he may have hurt her feelings with his curtness. It also occurred to him, belatedly, that it was probably the very first time she had ever asked him anything about himself. _Perfect_. He had been the one to suggest an attempt at friendship, and now he owed her his life, as well.

_But, hey, what's a little antagonism between friends?_

_Ass._

She spoke before he could apologize, making him feel even worse with her calm consideration. "If you do not wish to speak to me about it, you can simply say so. I would understand. I did not intend to pry into something so private."

He sighed, running a hand over his face, and idly wished one of the demons that had been plaguing them all day might pop up out of the ground when the distraction might actually be of some _use _to him. "She's my sister," he said at last. "Half-sister. I tracked her down several years ago. I wanted to find family. She didn't. She just wanted money, and was furious when I didn't have any to give her. I haven't spoken to her since."

Again, she was quiet, no doubt remembering a very different scene than the one he had just described. Alistair held his breath, waiting for the flood of questions that was sure to follow, given her avid curiosity and penchant for speaking whatever came to mind. But the interrogation didn't come. Instead, Lyna offered him a small smile, lifting her shoulder in a shrug. "Perhaps since she is so content wallow in misery, it is better that you left her to it. I do not think you could have provided her with any."

Alistair didn't know how to respond to that.

…

The pandemonium of spells and screams died away, leaving only an empty, ominous silence ringing all around him, interrupted only by the rushing sound of his heartbeat in his ears and the heavy, labored breathing coming from his chest. The residue of a hundred different magics bombarding his Templar senses all at once left him dazed, tingling along his skin like a light sunburn. Alistair shook his head, trying to regain some amount of control, and fought back a wave of nausea as a result.

"Alistair, are you all right?" Leliana seemed to have materialized beside him, her eyes filled with concern. He was on his hands and knees with no clear memory of how he got there. "Oh! You're hurt!"

He glanced down and saw the blood staining his shirtsleeve. So he was. He lifted his arm experimentally, but felt only a dull stinging in his bicep. "It's not bad." He struggled to get up, aware of Leliana trying to stop him.

"Please, hold still. I saw you collapse after you killed Uldred. Did he do something to you?"

His mind came hurtling back, the memory of the blast of energy that had rendered him all but helpless as the gargantuan abomination leered down at him. Alistair was sure he was done for, until without warning, the monster reared back, providing a clear shot to the heart, a pair of arrows embedded in the base of Uldred's spine…

"Where's Lyna?" He glanced frantically about, but only saw Wynne, tending to Irving. Leliana looked horrified, spinning around to check the pile of bodies behind them. Together they began to search through the wreckage.

He finally found her, buried beneath the remains of what had once been Uldred. She was conscious, but only barely, her eyes smoldering in pain. He knelt down next to her, relieved to see that aside from what was sure to be a broken rib or two and a good blow to the head, she hadn't been hurt too badly. "Can you move at all?"

She looked up at him with glossy eyes. "I believe… I can walk…"

"Not worth it." He gingerly slipped his arms beneath her and lifted her as carefully as he could, wincing when she whimpered in pain. "It's okay—I've got you."

"_Emma sulevin_," she whispered, smiling faintly at his confused look. "'I know.'"


	3. Chapter 3

**Surrender**

_Part Three_

.

.

"Can I ask _you _a question?"

Lyna didn't look up from her work, absorbed in her daily ritual of tending to her bow. She pulled back, testing the tension of the pull. "I am sure you can. Whether or not I answer is a different matter entirely."

He smiled a little. It wasn't often that Alistair had his own brand of humor turned against him, but he was quickly learning that Lyna's dry wit was every bit as bizarre as his was, minus the penchant for babbling. He thought it fit her rather well, given her muted personality.

The others were less sure what to make of her. As the weeks passed and they began to settle into routine, boundaries were drawn and relationships established amongst their little group. Lyna wasn't exactly disliked by the others—in fact, a few of them, Leliana in particular, even seemed to find her amusing—but she wasn't loved, either. She kept to herself for the most part, occasionally wandering off into the woods to be alone for hours at a time. It fell to Alistair to handle many of the issues that arose. The rest of the crowd, including the smarmy assassin she had managed to pick up, were, frankly, too intimidated by the Dalish to try to approach her with anything.

It was honestly beginning to frustrate him. Lyna did everything they asked of her; she made all the difficult decisions that he couldn't, as well as following through with all the little requests that arose from each of them. And yet, they skittered around her like nervous horses when wolves were near. He found himself embarrassed by this, but Lyna seemed not to notice—or care—what the others thought of her.

It was a concept he couldn't quite wrap his head around.

When she was in camp, she spent most of her time in his company. They didn't talk much, but he felt more at peace when she was near, the call in his blood answered by a like voice, even if actual words were rarely exchanged. He liked to think she felt the same way.

He leaned back against his gear, the curiosity that had been pressing him since Redcliffe milling in his mind. "Fair enough. Back in Redcliffe, you were talking about that spell the blood mage wanted to try. But, you're not a mage."

"And _that_ is not a question."

"I was just wondering how you knew all that."

She glanced at him, thinking for a long time before she answered. Lyna was often hesitant to speak about her background, and so he was willing to wait until she was ready to tell him, which she usually did. Whether her hesitation stemmed from privacy or habit, he still wasn't sure. He strongly hoped it was the latter.

"Magic is not as feared, nor revered, among my people as it is yours," she said finally. "It is a practical tool, openly used among the clans, to the best of our ability. Much of our lore was lost over the ages, but the powers that we still possess, we hold onto. I knew something of the sort of magic he used, because it is one we know well to leave alone. To draw on the energy of another living being, to manipulate a life force, is an affront to the gods."

"I see." He hadn't really intended to push the issue further, but apparently, his mouth had other ideas. "Is that why you hated Duncan? Some old superstition about the Joining?"

She looked at him, her expression so completely blank he wasn't sure if he was imagining the look in her eyes, like she had been stung. "I did not hate your Duncan, Alistair. And there is a difference between a blood vow and what you were speaking of. Even a superstitious savage such as I knows that much."

Wow, it really _had _sounded like that, hadn't it? _Idiot_. "No, I didn't mean—"

"I know you didn't." She sighed and gathered up her things. "But the notion is still there, whether you wish it to be or not." She got up, heading over to her bedroll, which was spread out beneath the open sky. Lyna hardly ever slept inside of her tent, unless the weather demanded it.

Alistair watched her go, running a hand over his face. Well, he had certainly handled _that _with his usual brilliance. Zevran had watched the entire exchange from the other side of the camp, and now quirked a brow at him, smiling. Alistair picked up a book lying beside his pack and lobbed it at the assassin's head. Zevran dodged it easily, laughing at him the whole time.

Great. Now he didn't feel any better _and_ he'd have to get up and get his book back.

With a sigh, he shoved himself to his feet, determinedly ignoring the smirking elf. Zevran wasn't having any more luck with Lyna than he was, which was some comfort, but it didn't mean much when he still couldn't figure out how to get through to her. He only wished he could find something that would give them equal footing, preferably _before _he stuck his foot in his mouth again.

…

After what could only be classified as a wasted trip to Denerim, Lyna decided that they would stop in Redcliffe again, and spend a few days there before they began the search for Haven. Since Isolde was the one insisting they go on this quest, Lyna said, she could certainly spare her hospitality while the companions took some time to heal and regain their strength.

Alistair was fairly certain that Isolde would have an entirely different opinion about what they should be doing with their time, unaccustomed to being told that her desires were secondary to _anything_. But, she also seemed to be a little afraid of Lyna, and so also wasn't likely to say anything—at least, not to her face.

Teagan was certainly gracious enough when they arrived, polite even in the pressing need to find a cure for his brother. Alistair suspected that he had his own doubts about this scheme—a suspicion that was only strengthened when he looked over the map they had managed to acquire with a sigh and a shake of his head.

Alistair didn't see Lyna until later that evening, when he ventured out onto the grounds for a little fresh air. No matter how much he had learned to enjoy the simple comforts of a hot meal and a real bed to sleep in, these past months on the road had given him a bit of an aversion to staying indoors for long periods of time. After an entire afternoon spent going over their plans with Teagan and Isolde, he needed the break.

He was surprised to find Lyna sitting in the courtyard with Connor while the boy wrestled with Falon. Alistair hadn't seen Connor so happy since his horrific experience with the demon. He laughed and rolled in the grass while the dog licked his face, pawing at him like his own brand of chew toy. Alistair smiled to himself and leaned in the doorway, content to watch them from a distance.

Things had still been a little strained between he and Lyna recently, even if she had accepted his apology. It was a difficult thing they were trying to do, he supposed, made even more frustrating by his penchant for speaking before he thought and her biting reactions. He had never gotten a chance to really see Lyna with all of her guards down before, laughing in the sun as she joined in the play.

It was a side of her he wanted to see again.

Teagan appeared a few moments later, approaching them with a smile of his own. Alistair scowled. Much as he liked Teagan, the man was entirely too charismatic around Lyna—all suave and intelligent, without any of the awkward turns of phrase that seemed determined to plague Alistair for the rest of his life. The bann regarded the woman with genuine respect and admiration, and it easily showed in all of his dealings with her.

It was enough to make anyone daft.

"Connor, your mother has been looking everywhere for you."

Connor sat up and wiped his face, whining in disappointment. "But Lyna promised to show me how to use her bow!"

Lyna laughed. "And I will keep that promise, but later, _da'len_. Right now, your mother searches for you. It would not do to worry her unnecessarily."

"Can you tomorrow? Right in the morning?"

"If that is your wish." She nodded towards Alistair, who was still keeping to the edges of things. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised that she had already spotted him. He had never met anyone as aware of their surroundings as she was. "My friend has been pestering me for lessons, as well. Perhaps we will let him join us, if you would like the company."

"You're going to give Alistair a bow?" Teagan looked faintly amused by this. "Well, I suppose it's your prerogative, my lady, but I might suggest heavier armor for both you and Connor, if that's the case."

"I'm standing _right here_."

Lyna winked at the child. "All the more reason to let him practice, I think. Now go and see what it is your mother wants."

"Can I take Falon with me?"

Lyna reached down to rub the dog's belly. "So long as I have your promise that you will not try to feed him. He grows fat and lazy enough as it is."

Alistair came forward when the others disappeared back inside and sat right down on the grass beside her. She glanced sidelong at him, the contentment she had found in playing with Connor still lingering in her smile.

"You're very good with him, you know," he said, nodding towards the doors Teagan and Connor had gone through. "I didn't peg you as the type to have a lot of patience for children."

"Oh, I am quite accustomed to them. Our children are raised communally, you see. There had never been a day, until Duncan came, where I did not have little ones continually underfoot. It is… refreshing, to be near one again."

"That sounds… kind of wonderful, actually." He sat back, resting his weight on his hands, and tried to imagine growing up that way. It was impossible. All he knew of childhood was the way the nobles treated it, passing off their children to be fostered by allies, and his own experience in Redcliffe. "It's got to have its drawbacks, though. I mean, if your young hunters are anything like the Templars I know, the idea of them taking care of an infant is equal parts hilarious and horrifying."

She shrugged. "Perhaps, but it is simpler than trying to establish who has earned the responsibility. There are many things shared by the Dalish as a community."

Alistair felt just how wide his eyes got as her implication hit him, and he turned to stare at her. She didn't look at him, concentrating on a blade of grass she twirled between her fingers, but there was the tiniest curve to her lips that gave her away. She was teasing him. "That is so _not funny_."

She broke, laughing. It reached her eyes, making them sparkle in the light of the sunset, reflecting the red and gold on the horizon in the rich brown of her irises. He had never recognized how beautiful her eyes were before. "Perhaps not from your position. You should have seen your face, though."

…

The mountains were filled with more crazy cultists than Alistair ever wanted to meet again—that is, if he had wanted to meet crazy cultists in the first place, which he didn't.

As they traveled deeper and deeper into the tunnels, he could feel Lyna's irritation with the fanatics growing dangerously close to the breaking point, causing her to take more risks than was normal for her. Normally, she stayed well behind him, using her bow to the fullest advantage, but now she kept inching forward, determined to take down as many enemies as possible as they swarmed the outer halls, threatening to spill in and overwhelm them.

Alistair watched her carefully, waiting for the moment she stepped too far. When he saw her run out of the room in pursuit of the fleeing mage, he was right behind her.

They turned the corner at the same time, only to find the mage had regained his footing, facing them with a swell of fire growing between his hands.

Lyna's eyes went huge. "Oh, sh—"

He yanked her back, twisting at the same moment he threw down a cleanse, protecting her from flying debris as the shelves of books exploded all around them with his own body. The destruction washed over them in a cloud of splinters and dust, soaking them both with a sudden wave of melted snow that his Templar abilities could do nothing to block.

She twisted around the moment they could breathe, dropping low to shoot two arrows in rapid succession. They caught the mage directly in the chest.

Alistair felt Lyna leaning against him, shaking in the loose hold he still had on her. He looked down, worried that she had managed to get injured despite his precautions, but a moment later she fell back, landing on her backside as she tried to wring the water from her hair.

She was _laughing_.

Alistair found himself chuckling as well, reaching up to push his hair back out of his eyes. "You know, I believe I may be a bad influence on you."

She continued to giggle, smiling up at him. "I believe I would agree."


	4. Chapter 4

_Part Four_

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"Alistair already _has _an obligation. It is to the Grey Wardens."

The words were calm enough, but Lyna's displeasure was evident in the rigidness of her stance, and the slight twist to her mouth, like she had bitten into something sour. Alistair saw the glances she shot his way, her scowl deepening, and thought he knew the reason she was holding back words she obviously found distasteful. She knew Arl Eamon was important to him, and so was doing her best to rein in her temper with the man.

He would have liked to tell her not to bother. It wasn't like Eamon was listening, anyway.

"When the Grey Wardens accepted Alistair into their ranks, they could never have known that Ferelden would find itself in this position. We will need him, if we have any hope of putting an end to this war."

"What about me?" Only long years of habit kept Alistair's tone civil. He was overjoyed that Eamon had recovered, but now, faced with his worst fears, he also couldn't help but be just a little suspicious that the man had practically woken up with this scheme in mind. "Don't _I_ have any say in this?"

Eamon frowned, no doubt caught off guard by the protest. "You have a duty to the people of Ferelden. You cannot simply ignore your blood because you have a previous commitment."

_Convenient, that_. Alistair frowned, but bit back the sharp retort that sprang to mind.

Lyna was positively bristling. "An oath is an oath precisely _because _it cannot be broken. Our lives are no longer our own, to suddenly decide another course than the one laid out before us."

Eamon sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I realize this is difficult for you to understand, but an heir to the blood cannot serve the country as a Grey Warden alone. He has a greater obligation to the people of this nation than to spend his life hunting darkspawn."

Alistair felt himself wince and shot another wary glance at Lyna. _Very good, Eamon—use up all of her patience in one go, why don't you?_

"Do not assume because we Dalish choose not to practice your subservience to bloodlines in our own dealings that we do not understand them," she said quietly, her voice taking on a dangerous edge. "Alistair serves the people of this nation in ways a lordling like you could not possibly imagine. You saw him fit enough to _waste _on a war against the darkspawn when Cailan was still alive. You understand nothing of what it means to be a Grey Warden."

Alistair decided it was time to intervene, before this got more heated than it already was. He reached out and put a hand on Lyna's arm, shaking his head. Furious as he was with Eamon, and grateful as he was to Lyna, the entire suggestion was too far-fetched yet to waste energy arguing over it. "Leave it. We still have an army to gather."

Lyna looked at him over her shoulder, her eyes bright with anger, before she shook him off and all but stormed from the room, muttering to herself in a long stream of elvish. When he turned around, Alistair suddenly found a half-dozen questioning looks directed his way. He rolled his eyes. "Oh, sure, make _me _say it."

…

Vague levels of understanding or not, Alistair was pretty sure that the fragile friendship he and Lyna had managed to build was about to come to a crashing and likely _messy _end when they finally found the Dalish. Alistair had made his fair share of people heartily dislike him over the years—proper Templars had nosense of humor _at all_—but never had he experienced waves of distrust aimed his way simply by _default_. The Dalish were coldly formal, agreeing to cooperation out of respect for his status as a Grey Warden, but still a sullen dislike remained in the air the entire time they remained in camp. After learning the gist of what was going on, Alistair decided it prudent to leave Lyna to gather the details and took the others out of her way.

He sensed trouble coming before the hunter had even reached them. Alistair, Leliana and Zevran were waiting a safe distance away from the encampment, just inside of the tangled forest, when the young man confronted them. Alistair recognized the look on his face immediately—he had seen it on the face of too many young Templars not to. Haughty arrogance and pride like that could only be achieved by a young warrior who had not yet learned the benefit of humility to temper them.

He sighed.

"You're not welcome here, _shem_."

Alistair had the wry thought that at least the boy had enough sense to keep his venom centered on him—had Leliana been the target of it, he doubted Zevran would have remained as calm as he did. The assassin merely quirked an eyebrow, crossing his arms with a faint air of amusement, and waited to see how this unfolded.

Alistair would have preferred to keep it tightly _folded_, if at all possible. "We're not looking for any trouble. We're here by the permission of your Keeper."

"We have no need of the assistance of outsiders, especially not ones who would cringe in the face of a real warrior. We know how to protect our own."

"Clearly." It was a mistake—he knew it the moment the dry skepticism slipped from his lips. The hunter's daggers were drawn in an instant, as were Zevran's. Alistair's hand tightened on his sword hilt, trying desperately to think of a way to diffuse the situation when Lyna ran up from seemingly nowhere. She threw herself in between them, shoving both Alistair and the young hunter back for good measure. Alistair fell back willingly, but the man was less obliging until Lyna shoved him again, snapping out an order in her own language. Alistair didn't need to be fluent to recognize an order to back off.

"_Seth'lin_!" The man was trembling in his anger as he glared down at her. "You defend this _shemlen_ against one of your own?"

"I defend a fellow Grey Warden against an arrogant fool who has not yet learned when to hold his tongue."

Alistair shifted uncomfortably. "Uh, Lyna? I might have provoked him. Just a _little_."

Lyna didn't even look his way. "I never doubted it, but it was he who came here, looking for a reason to fight."

The hunter crossed his arms, a look of pure disgust contorting his features. "The others were right. You turn your back on your own people. So be it, flat-ear. Perhaps he will sell you to a good master once he is done with you."

The carefully constructed calm fell like a curtain, dousing the smoldering anguish in her eyes so quickly Alistair was sure he was the only one who had seen it clearly. She simply shook her head and threw her hands in the air in exasperation. The jerky movements that replaced her usual grace belied the feigned detachment.

Alistair stepped forward automatically. "Lyna—"

"Come. We have work to do." She stalked into the trees, Leliana hurrying to catch up, her gentle voice working quickly to try and soothe her.

Fury washed through him, making every detail of the hunter's smug face sharpen in his vision. He vaguely heard Zevran _tsk _and remark, "That was foolish, my friend," seconds before Alistair's fist caught the young man beneath the jaw. The blow sent him crashing onto his back, sputtering in rage, but Alistair planted on foot on either side of him and roughly grabbed him by the collar, giving him a little shake. "I'm only going to tell you this once. You don't talk to her again. _Halam sahlin. _Got it?"

His eyes still spitting hatred, the hunter wiped the blood from his lip with the back of his hand and nodded, apparently realizing that he was outnumbered. He rolled to his feet, refusing to dust himself off, and stalked back to camp.

"Ah, jealousy. It is a marvelous distraction, no?" Zevran chuckled beneath his breath and sheathed his daggers. "Truly, Alistair, such testosterone-driven urges are useless if the lady is not present to witness them."

"Better she _didn't _see that," he muttered, shaking his hand for the stinging knuckles. "I think I just made things even worse."

Zevran disagreed with a sharp laugh. "One thing you must realize: Male pride is a contamination that infects every culture, and quite a useful one. Perhaps, if we had been standing in their midst, I would have felt more inclined to stop you, averse as I am to a backside full of arrows. However, as it stands, the pubescent victim would first have to run back to his friends, both sporting that brilliant bruise and crying of the nasty _shemlen_ who put him in his place. I do not believe we have to worry."

…

Lyna did not tell the Dalish about Zathrian.

When she returned to the camp with the story about how Zathrian had broken the curse and died in the process, leaving out the entire portion where he was _responsible _for the whole mess, Alistair didn't object, though he did have to elbow Zevran in the ribs to silence his skeptical snort at that slightly skewed version.

It wasn't that she approved of the Keeper's actions, or even tried to make excuses for them. Alistair remembered the fury in her eyes, the way her knuckles had gone white in the grip she had on her bow, her entire body shaking with rage as she stared at the ancient elf in outraged disbelief.

"_You would risk the life of your clan, of those you are blood sworn to protect, for the sake of your own vengeance?_"

No, she had not approved. Alistair had never seen her look so completely lost, the disillusion weighing down her shoulders like a physical burden. Yet she went through with the lie, unwilling to be the one who caused the others to feel the same grief over their misplaced trust in their Keeper, or to steal their faith that the elves might one day achieve the glory of their lost past.

If any of them doubted, wondering _why _Zathrian had the power to break the curse, they didn't ask. But they warmed to Lyna considerably after that.

She sat on the edge of things now, a small smile on her face as she watched the Dalish clan go about their daily business. The sense of relief that had fallen over the entire scene was nearly palpable, as was the dissolving of the distrust that had overwhelmed them when they first arrived. Leliana was in the distance, speaking to the lore master with the animated enthusiasm of two people who share their greatest passion. Zevran was demonstrating his use of daggers to a couple of curious young hunters. A few faces had even become familiar over the past few days—some were more willing than others to make themselves known to the outsiders. Alistair spotted Cammen, clutching the hand of his lady, both of them wearing identical bandages around their hands.

Alistair flopped down beside Lyna on the grass, gesturing to the young couple. "What do you supposed happened there?"

She glanced up. "They likely performed their bonding while we were away."

"I see. Wait—no, I don't. What does a wedding have to do with anything?"

She regarded him a moment before she shrugged. "It is a blood vow. Those who are bonded are recognized amongst our people by the scar they bear here." She reached over and took his hand, turning it so that it was cradled in her own, and lightly traced the curving line down the center of his palm with a delicate finger. He shivered. "It is the life line, the final destination of the heart's blood. The participants mix that blood in a promise to become one heart, one life." She paused. "I would thank you not to share this with anyone else. My people can be… hesitant… about sharing our customs with those outside of the _Elvhen_. They would be outraged if they discovered how much of the language you have learned."

Alistair thought of the hunter in the woods and flushed. Probably better not to tell her about that just yet. "I don't mean to cause trouble for you, Lyna. You don't have to teach me."

She looked at him, and the depth and smile in her dark eyes took his breath away. "But _you _are my clan, now. Silly shem."

…

She was beautiful and fierce, a creature of grace and courage, and he was completely transfixed by her. As winter gave way to spring, the ice around her seemed to melt with the frost, the warmth of her laughter brightening his days as she would run ahead of the others with Falon at her side, or play in the mountain streams with Leliana, their happy shrieks filling the campsite.

He figured it out, eventually, on a night when the stars shined brightly overhead. She sat with him beside the fire, talking comfortably amidst the smell of smoke and magic, her quiet laughter seeping into every ounce of his being. It struck him like a bolt of lightning, frightening and powerful and wonderful all at once, and he didn't know how he couldn't have realized it sooner. He forgave himself this once, because even though he might have been a little slow on the uptake, he knew now.

This was what falling in love felt like.


	5. Chapter 5

_Part Five_

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The attack came without warning. One minute he was trapped in the throes of a nightmare, and the next, the nightmare was _real_, the darkspawn overrunning the camp in ridiculous numbers. The watch barely had time to shout a warning, giving Alistair only a chance to grab his weapon and shield and scramble to his feet before he was swarmed. The darkspawn milled all around him—a vile, stinking mob of wild eyes and sharp claws that raked at his bare skin, snaking through his defenses with the fury of raw bloodlust. He was outnumbered and unarmored, and fighting as hard as he ever had in his life.

"They are attacking the Wardens!" Sten bellowed to the others before his great sword cleaved a genlock down the center. Alistair risked a glance around, and realized that the warrior was right. The darkspawn dodged around the rest of the companions as they charged him, forcing them to give chase. Alistair fell back and concentrated on parrying rather than attacking to buy his friends time to reach him. He could hear the twang of Leliana's bow nearby, feel the gentle tingle of Wynne's magic frantically working to close the wounds he was sustaining despite his best efforts.

That left Zevran and Morrigan alone to help Lyna. She would be able to hold them off with her bow for some time, but she was no good in hand to hand combat—not against these numbers. He ducked a vicious blow from a hurlock and caught the qunari's eye over the mob. "Go! Help Lyna!"

Sten paused for only a moment—probably struggling with the notion of taking orders from the "lesser Warden," as he was so fond of calling Alistair—before he beheaded the shriek he was fighting and ran to obey. Alistair saw Leliana's stance shift, her teeth gritted in concentration as she fired in a haze of blurry speed that had no care for accuracy, determined to keep him alive.

When it was over, Alistair saw the stream of blood that ran freely from his ribs among the numerous other cuts and scratches that covered his skin, but the pain barely registered as he glanced frantically around the camp, rapidly doing a mental headcount. Zevran was right behind him, yanking his dagger across the throat of a hurlock while Morrigan engulfed the last two genlocks in a storm of fire that had them reduced to cinders in a matter of seconds. Wynne was already next to him, muttering to Leliana about the size of the group that had surrounded Alistair, and he dazedly realized he had been in more danger than any of them, the older Taint drawing the darkspawn like moths to a flame.

He frowned, feeling a little put out that Lyna wasn't among those surrounding him. He was confident the others wouldn't have left her without making sure she was safe first. "Where's—" He hissed when Wynne pressed on the wound at his side, trying to staunch the bleeding. "Where's Lyna?"

Leliana looked startled, glancing around curiously. "She was right here…"

A wail rose from the edge of the camp—a hollow, agonized sound that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. It took a moment before he recognized the voice as Lyna's. Without thinking, he shoved past Wynne, running towards the cry, with Leliana and Morrigan right behind him.

Lyna was kneeling at the edge of the forest beside a still, spread-eagle figure Alistair instantly recognized as a ghoul, and one in its last stages of transformation. Its throat had been slit—Lyna still clutched the bloody dagger in one hand. Her other arm was wrapped tightly around her, her nails digging into her arm as she continue to wail, leaving long, bloody scratches in her grief.

He ran forward and dropped to his knees behind her, his arms coming around to pin hers against her. She fought him blindly, struggling in his grip, kicking and thrashing against him, but Alistair wrenched the knife from her and refused to let go. Another glance at the corpse revealed that the figure was clearly male—and clearly elven. Ice settled in his gut. "Lyna… Lyna! It was a mercy killing—there was nothing to be done for him." The words only seemed to magnify her pain. She threw her head back in another keen before she fell limp in his arms, pitching forward as the tears finally came, racking through her tiny frame with such violence he tightened his hold on her.

Leliana knelt beside them and hesitantly reached out to touch Lyna's hair, her bright blue eyes filling with tears at the sight of the stubborn Dalish so utterly hysterical. Lyna was babbling incoherently, sobbing out a flood of elvish that was coming too rapidly for Alistair to sort out. Around her grief and rage he heard a single name: Tamlen.

…

Alistair glanced again at the tiny tent on the edge of the camp. He had managed to get Lyna back there after a few muttered words from Morrigan that seemed to put the elf in a weary kind of daze, but he was forced to leave her in the care of Leliana. The blood loss had taken its toll on him, making him dizzy, and Wynne had wasted no time in grumbling her displeasure when he slumped beside her, clutching his side.

He wished she would stop fussing over him and get on with the healing, already.

"Well, I've done all I can," she said a few moments later, much to his relief. "You're going to be weak for the next couple of days."

He sat up with a groan, gingerly rubbing his bandaged ribs. Wynne was quick to smack his hand away. "Don't touch it! You're fortunate you didn't bleed out as it is."

"Bah. It's just a scratch."

"Maybe in _your_ definition of the word. You've the Maker's own luck, I swear it."

"Is _that_ what this is?" He grimaced as he tried to pull his shirt over his head, the stabbing pain from his wound making him wince. Wynne shook her head and helped him before he had to ask. His eyes again flitted over to the dark tent in the distance, and the mage sighed softly, following his gaze.

"Leliana left her a few moments ago," she said, a note of stiffness in her tone. It was no secret that Wynne still didn't wholly approve of Lyna or her methods. The closer Alistair and Lyna became, the more disapproving she seemed to get. Yet she had been just as unnerved as the others at Lyna's turbulent behavior earlier, and a whisper of that sympathy seemed to linger as she lowered her voice. "I imagine she's already asleep."

"I need to check on her." He got to his feet, stumbling a little from lying down for so long.

"Alistair." He turned back towards Wynne. She looked like she wanted to say something, but ended up just shaking her head again with a soft sigh. "Just… be careful."

Still, he lingered outside of the tent for a long time, wondering what to do. After chafing with impatience for Wynne to hurry up so that he could return to Lyna's side, his courage was beginning to slip away now that he was actually here. He wasn't sure how welcome his company would be—if Lyna was sleeping inside, it was a pretty clear indication she wanted to be left alone. Lyna's clear indications tended to end in sharp words and cause for cringing if they were ignored. Yet he couldn't quite tolerate the thought of leaving her alone to her misery, either, no matter what she thought she wanted. Finally, he swallowed his trepidation and ducked his head inside, fully ready to withdraw quickly if something was hurled at it. "Lyna?"

She was lying on her side with her back to him, her dark hair spread out over the pillow in a mass of tangled curls. She didn't look at him or answer, but she also didn't chase him out. It was all the invitation he needed. He stepped inside and sat cross-legged behind her, slowly reaching out to put a hand on her shoulder. She still didn't speak, but her hand came up to grasp his fingers, clutching at them like she was afraid of falling into looming darkness.

"Lyna… who was Tamlen?"

"He was my clanmate." Her voice sounded raw and hoarse, and Alistair didn't doubt that her throat was still stinging. He didn't respond, simply looking at her, until she relented with a tiny sigh and rolled over to face him. "He was my friend."

Alistair's hand was still beneath hers. He shifted it slightly, lifting his fingers to entwine them with hers. She started speaking then, a broken, quiet explanation of how she had come to join the Grey Wardens. She switched between elvish and common, lost in the retelling and the pain she had kept tucked away in her heart like a secret longing. She told him stories of her childhood, how she and Tamlen had grown up together—two orphans in the clan who had found solace in each other's company after their parents' murders. She told him of the cave and the mirror, of how Tamlen had approached it despite her own fear, of how Duncan rescued her, but refused to let her look for her missing clan mate, telling her only that he was beyond help. She spoke of recognizing the familiar, tormented eyes in the terrifying visage of the ghoul, its last words spent begging her not to let it hurt her.

It was late when exhaustion finally began to overtake her, her eyes staying closed longer and longer with each blink. Alistair was stretched out beside her by then, propped up by his elbow as they talked. When her eyes stayed closed, he made to get up, feeling every ache and pain he had sustained in the course of the evening and thinking he would be better off after a long sleep, as well. She startled awake at his movement, reaching out for him.

"Don't leave." Alistair paused, positive he had misunderstood her, but she forced her eyes open and met his gaze, pleading. "I need… your warmth. Please don't leave me."

Hesitantly, he nodded and lay back down, slipping his arm around her waist. She curled into him, draping an arm around his middle as she gave into sleep. He was awake for some time, watching her in the dim light provided by the dying campfire outside, her lovely face free of lines and worry in repose. He gently tucked a stray braid back behind her ear, wishing he could carry more of this burden for her; if he could, he would make sure she never bore those lines again.

Eventually, his fatigue became too persistent to fight any longer and he dozed off as well, Lyna soft and warm against him as she slept tucked away in his arms, feeling for all the world like she belonged no where else.

…

Alistair listened to the three women talking as he hovered nearby, sharpening his sword for lack of anything better to do. They were a day outside of Redcliffe, and the party seemed to be in higher spirits at the idea of a long, much-needed rest before they continued on to Orzammar. Falon darted about the clearing, barking madly at squirrels and mice while Wynne called severe warnings to the animal regarding the trampling of her collection of precious herbs. Leliana had finally managed to convince Lyna to accept her assistance in rebraiding her freshly washed hair. She was reluctant to do so at first, but seemed to be enjoying herself now, laughing at the bard's steady stream of bright chatter. Morrigan sat nearby, flipping through the grimoire Lyna and he had recovered from Flemeth. Alistair had no idea why the witch had suddenly decided to join them—a more appropriate thanks, in his mind, was that she stayed on her own end of the camp where she belonged—but she ignored all the glares he sent her way telling her so.

He heard Lyna's laugh again and glanced her way, relieved to see her acting more like herself again. The days following Tamlen's death and burial had been a dark time, leaving her subdued and silent, hovering at his side like a gauzy spirit barely clinging to its form. He had done what he could for her, and though she rarely spoke, she seemed grateful, rewarding him with small smiles and soft brushes of her hand against his—more than enough to make him keep trying.

"Oh, come now, Lyna. I am not blind. I saw the way the handsome young hunters all watched you while we remained in the camp. Surely you must have some stories to share?"

He had been so absorbed in his own thoughts that he hadn't realized what direction the conversation had taken. The whetstone rolled between Alistair's fingers and he scrambled to catch it, hoping no one had noticed his reaction. Part of him wanted to get up and leave immediately, a little miffed that Leliana would resort to girl-talk when he was sitting right there, but another, more adamant side of him was too curious to hear Lyna's answer to follow through with that idea.

She laughed. "I am sorry to disappoint, but there are no great romances in my past to add to your collection of stories." Alistair nearly sighed out loud, releasing a long breath he hadn't even realized he had been holding. His relief at the words was short-lived. "Casual companions and occasional lovers are all can boast. Tamlen was the only one who knew my soul, and he was ever just a friend."

Friend. Right. The soul-mate kind, of course.

It was definitely time to get out of here.

He got up, brushing the dirt and leaves off of his clothes. Lyna's eyes flicked to him immediately. "I'm just going to the fire," he said, hoping the sudden flood of irritation didn't show.

Her eyebrows drew together. "You seem troubled, _lethallin_."

Apparently, he wasn't as good at pulling off blasé as he had hoped. "I'm fine. I just need to talk to Zevran." She looked unconvinced. Alistair nearly sighed at the flimsy excuse. Like he ever talked to the assassin when he didn't have to.

"Oh, _please_." Morrigan rolled her eyes before he could formulate a believable story. "The wretch is so hopelessly in love with you himself, he simply can't tolerate the thought of you with another."

She smirked, obviously pleased at the stunned silence she had caused. Leliana was glaring daggers at her, her cheeks flushed with anger. For once, Lyna seemed just as tongue-tied as he was, her mouth hanging open slightly as she stared at him. Alistair closed his eyes.

_That did _not _just happen_.

He struggled for something to say, his mind reciting a desperate prayer that this was a bad dream. He would wake up, and everything would be normal, and he would be careful never to let this happen. Then he wouldn't have to _kill_ Morrigan.

With some vague idea of talking his way out of his mess, he began to stammer. "You know, I think… that is, I mean…" he trailed off miserably, afraid to look Lyna in the eye. He had already missed his chance. He should have laughed it off, or snapped back a witty retort that would have shut the witch up. But he had never been quick enough when it came to this sort of thing. "I have no idea how to answer that, actually," he said, his voice sounding very small.

Lyna continued to stare at him, the same questioning look in her eyes. He felt like he would burn to a cinder on the spot, horror and embarrassment filling him as the silence lengthened and spread between them, growing like an insurmountable beast he hadn't the first clue how to fight.

"I need to be… somewhere else," he mumbled, and fled like the coward he was.

…

She came to him in the moonlight, the silvery light clinging to her shadowed form as she stood at the entrance to his tent, her expression unreadable. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, sure that the sight was a lingering specter of a dream, but she didn't disappear when his vision cleared. "Lyna? What's wrong?"

She didn't answer, just stepped forward hesitantly, watching him the entire time. She wore nothing more than the gauzy white shift she sometimes slept in. It clung enticingly to her curves, brushing delicately against her thighs as she knelt down beside him. The shift was a little too big for her—a gift from Leliana that had been cut to fit a human, and the strap slipped off of one of her shoulders. He watched, transfixed, as her graceful fingers moved to slide it back into place. "You ran away from me today."

He had kind of hoped they wouldn't have to talk about this just yet. Or, preferably, _ever_. "I didn't exactly _run_," he said, trying to feign a joviality he didn't feel. "It was more of a stroll. Admittedly, a _rapid _stroll…"

She sighed softly in the darkness, and some little-heeded part of his brain warned that trying to make jokes right now was only going to make matters worse. He felt a tightening in his chest. "I'm sorry."

The silence fell between them again. Alistair was torn between cursing Morrigan and cursing his own awkward foolishness, that he didn't know what to do. He had the oddest feeling he should have been the one saying something, but his mind was coming up utterly blank, serving absolutely no use at all. He decided admitting as much was his only recourse. It certainly couldn't make things _worse_. "Is… is there any way at all I can hope to salvage this?"

She looked at him then, sitting close enough that he could see his reflection shimmering in her dark eyes, behind a hint of fear and nervousness he didn't completely understand. Her voice was barely more than a whisper. "You can tell me it's true."

The reply was akin to being punched in the stomach—it knocked the wind from him and left him dazed and staring, struggling for words. Lyna chewed on her bottom lip, her eyes dropping to the hands in her lap, and something inside of him broke open at the sight. He reached over, gently brushing the back of his fingers against her cheek, willing all the love and longing he felt for her to reach her through the touch. The look she gave him then made his heart swell in his chest. He felt the sweet hint of her breath just a second before she pressed her lips against his.

Alistair's thoughts collided and splintered, flying out in all directions. He had dreamed of this moment for so long, part of him worried he was still asleep, about to wake up to rending disappointment. Lyna felt his hesitation and started to pull away, afraid she had overstepped herself. Every fiber of his being protested loudly at the notion.

_Wake up, idiot_!

He sat up straighter, his hands cupping her jaw to keep her from escaping, and gently coaxed her lips apart, letting his tongue sweep into the soft warmth of her mouth. The full taste of her was reminiscent of a forest stream—bright and clean and utterly wild. He pulled her closer, deepening the kiss, his desire for her guiding him. Lyna seemed to melt into him, breathing him in as she returned his passion with equal fervor, pressing her lush body against his.

It wasn't until she reached down to tug at the ties to his breeches that he began to panic. He broke away, his voice breathless and unsure. "Lyna, I don't… I've never…"

"Don't think." The words were more of a breath against his lips as she moved onto his lap, her legs curled on either side of him. "Just feel."

His hands were shaking, fumbling a little as he lifted the shift over her head. Her bare skin, silky and smooth in the moonlight, silenced his nerves and awoke instincts he didn't know he had. He bent his head, exploring her curves with soft, open kisses that made her tremble in his arms. She moaned softly, arching into him as she guided him beneath her.

The rest of the world fell away.

* * *

><p><strong><em>AN_**_: For those who are interested, I recently added a picture based on this chapter of Alistair and Lyna to my deviantArt. The link to it is on my profile._


	6. Chapter 6

**_A/N_**_: So, after much angsting and deliberation, I have been forced to conclude that it is more important for me to tell the story as it was determined to unfold, rather than try to pad it and draw it out to my original outline. So, I am very sorry for misleading you, but this is, in fact, the last part to Surrender. I hope you guys don't mind. I had a lot of fun exploring the Mahariel character, and I can only hope you enjoyed the journey as much as I did._

_Thanks again for reading :)_

* * *

><p><strong>Surrender<strong>

**_Part Six_**

.

.

They made love in the tall grasses beside lakes, beneath the stars, and in the thick forests at the edge of Ferelden. Any moment they were truly alone irrevocably ended with them eagerly tugging at each other's clothes as they sank to the ground, slaves to the newly forged fire that raged between them. When he was with her, with their limbs entwined and her breath hot against his skin, the Blight seemed very far away, everything and everyone fading away except _here_ and _now_. Occasionally, he would idly wonder if he had turned into a drooling lecher after all, but every night she would twist in his arms, her mouth hungrily seeking his in the darkness, and for a little while, the world was at rights again.

The frequency of their intimacy wasn't lost on the rest of their little band, and Alistair suffered more teasing in the next few weeks as they made their way to Orzammar than he had for the entirety of his time with the Grey Wardens. However, he did find it was much easier to endure ribbing for being the only one in the group who _was_ having sex, rather than the other way around.

He couldn't say what made him notice the Lyna was acting differently once they had reached Orzammar. The change was barely noticeable—certainly the others didn't detect that anything was wrong with her. There was just a certain detachment in her eyes, a force to her laugh that he found more than a little concerning. Try as he might, he couldn't seem to cheer her from whatever it was that troubled her. She still came to him each night, clinging to him almost desperately in her sleep, and so despite his trepidations, Alistair had to assume whatever the problem was, it wasn't with him.

It took him nearly a week before he finally figured it out, the signs coming together to explain an emotion so foreign for her that he felt he could be forgiven for not understanding sooner.

She was terrified.

Even in the mild depths of the city, he suddenly noticed her glancing about anxiously, her eyes continually darting to the massive weight of rock over their heads as they ran pointless errands for the quarreling claimants to the throne. He had begun to believe so thoroughly that Lyna didn't fear anything, it had never occurred to him that she had never been in a world without fresh air and sunshine. When Harrowmont requested that they journey into the lost thaigs, she could no longer hide her fear from the others.

The Deep Roads were nearly too much for all of them, the oppressing darkness and stale air closing in around them from all sides, but for the Wardens, it was a waking nightmare. Lyna's ivory skin had gone positively ghostly in the dim light cast by Morrigan's staff, her eyes swimming with anxiety as they searched into the warped, distorted shadows that danced ahead of them. The Taint was thick down here, as well, slowing to a crawl in his veins, a haunting echo of the song that drove the darkspawn. Every fiber of Alistair's being screamed out for him to abandon this scheme and go running back to the surface, back to light and life and something other than the dark press of inevitability. Only Lyna kept him from losing it completely, his concern for her overriding the terror that lurked at the edge of his mind.

He found her away from the others one night—or day, it was impossible to tell which—after they had decided to stop despite having finally found a solid clue that they were headed in the right direction. Lyna was sitting on the edge of a long, deep gorge, her knees pulled to her chest and her arms wrapped tightly around them, staring out into the darkness. He was cautious approaching her, recognizing the tension in her shoulders and back as a warning.

She didn't move when he sat down next to her, save for a glance out of the corner of her eye.

"You should be sleeping," he said, keeping his voice quiet to avoid the eerie, distorted echoes that seemed to constantly hover around them.

"_Dar'en aravel elah'la shal'en._" _We are walking in our own grave_.

He winced. "Well, that's a cheery little thought."

"I find myself unable to consider any other."

He sighed and put his arm around her. She responded readily, leaning over to wrap her arms around him, her head resting against his chest. Despite her cool demeanor, he felt her trembling and closed his eyes. "Lyna, go back to the city. I can find Branka."

She shook her head so violently the beads in her hair clashed together. "I cannot leave you down here alone."

"Love, I realize that you have this thing with being insanely stubborn, but I promise, no one's going to think any less of you for going back. Zevran might actually _kiss _you if you take him with you. I can manage this one thing on my own."

"You misunderstand me, Alistair. I _cannot _leave you down here alone. It may be weeks before this Paragon is found. All that waiting, not knowing if you will return to me…" She shuddered. "Please don't ask that of me. It's too much."

Her fear for him was greater than her terror of this horrible place. The realization was almost staggering. He drew her closer to him and kissed the top of her head, stroking her hair while a realization of his own took form and found words. "Nothing could ever keep me from coming back to you, Lyna."

…

"No."

Arl Eamon looked completely taken aback by the simple reply, his mouth working to protest before he could think of what to say. Alistair held his breath, waiting. Eamon was never speechless for very long.

The arl floundered for a while, settling for glaring at each of them before he crossed his arms, visibly working to keep his voice calm. "I hope you realize the damage you are causing by refusing to stand with us," he finally said.

_Us_? Alistair thought dryly, but Lyna was already shaking her head, unmoved by the argument. "I am sorry, Arl Eamon, but you cannot convince me that the loss of a single Dalish voice in a human Landsmeet will be the cause for generations of civil unrest. I am not that vain."

"You are the only other Grey Warden in Ferelden! How will it look, when even Alistair's partner can't be bothered to support him?"

She shrugged. "This Landsmeet is but a technicality to remove an enemy from a place he does not belong before the true war begins. We have the evidence we need to succeed in that much."

"You think that simply removing Loghain will solve your problems? The squabbling for the throne will cause countless factions to appear all over Ferelden, each one with a claim no stronger than the last. The fighting could drag on for years."

She met his gaze levelly. "I do not intend to leave that to chance, Arl Eamon. I have _some _knowledge of the importance of this decision. Ferelden will have an established ruler, one who is capable of uniting both sides of this dispute with no more bloodshed. Even you must admit that Alistair is as controversial a choice for the throne as Loghain."

"There is no one in Ferelden with a stronger claim. The only hope you could possibly have is…" His voice trailed off, his grey, bristly brows drawing together in a dark frown. "You're going to support Anora."

Lyna didn't seem to see any reason to answer to the obvious, and so remained silent. Frustrated with trying to reason with the Dalish, Eamon turned his anger on Alistair. "I suppose I should assume you've already spoken to her about this?"

Alistair nodded, trying to sound confident beneath Eamon's glare, which still seemed able to reduce him to a stammering ten-year-old. "At length. Anora's more than willing to let me step back into obscurity if we give our support against her father."

"And what of those who have fought, and died, to keep Loghain from seizing the throne? People who have resisted him for the sake of _your _line, Alistair? Are you so afraid to see who you truly are?"

"Are you?" The quiet question caught everyone off guard, including Alistair. He flushed when Eamon glowered at him, disappointment evident in every line of his face, but plowed on ahead, anyway. "Anora's only hope is to discredit her father—she knows that. Those people weren't dying for me, Eamon—they don't even know I exist. Anora represents both Cailan's throne and Loghain's influence. Without me, there's no one left to oppose her. This is the best chance we have for a peaceful transition."

Eamon made a sound between a sigh and a growl, fixing Lyna with a look that said as clearly as words on a page that he thought this entire thing was her fault. "Whether or not you are damning generations of Ferelden to civil war remains to be seen. But what makes you so certain this is the best decision for _him_?" he asked, pointing an accusing finger at Alistair.

Lyna only blinked at first, staring at Eamon as though the answer should have been obvious. "Because I _asked _him. It is a courtesy you might attempt, in the future."

...

He stared at her, looking for any sign—a flicker of her eyes, a quirk of her lips—to tell him she couldn't possibly be serious about this. Lyna offered him no such assurance, meeting his gaze with unnerving gravity. The tumult of emotion she was keeping locked behind her eyes was all the answer he needed, anyway.

"Lyna," he said, and he could hear the pleading in his own voice, "you can't really be asking me to do this. Not with Morrigan."

She shook her head, her teeth appearing momentarily to chew at her bottom lip before she caught herself, schooling her features back into the carefully constructed mask he hadn't seen her use with him for a long time. "I am not asking," she said, her quiet tone belying the illusion of indifference. "I am simply letting you know what options are available to you."

"To me?" He couldn't quite keep the anger from seeping through, stung by her words and determination to keep what she was feeling hidden from him when he was really fine with being such an open mess. "What about us? Don't you care about this at all?"

The mask rippled. "How can you ask me that? I have no desire for you to…" She shook her head and squared her shoulders. "I cannot make this decision for you, Alistair."

He slouched back on their bed, his mind reeling. Of all the reasons his mind had created for Morrigan to want to speak to Lyna in private—this was worse than anything he could have invented. Lyna remained silent, unwilling to influence his thinking in any way. He hated her a little for that.

He knew their chances of getting through the coming battle. For the first time, Alistair was forced to consider the idea that they wouldn't live through this together, that there would be no happy ending and life after the Blight. All the time he had spent obsessing- the nerves he felt over making a fool of himself in asking her to stay when it was all over—they were nothing but the ridiculous fears of an unsure fool. He wished, now, that he had asked her before this, had taken the chance to tell her just how much he loved her before his back was against the wall. It seemed important.

He thought of the sultry witch, waiting for him like a spider in the next room, offering a tangled web that threatened to capture him and hold him fast, but let him live. His skin crawled.

He thought of Lyna, standing before the archdemon, the beast leering down at his little elf with bloodlust gleaming in its demonic eyes.

He rubbed his face with his hands and tried to banish the image. "Then I suppose… I'll be back," he said, taking extra care not to look at her as he strode from the room and shut the door behind him.

…

He leaned heavily on the stone edge of the basin, watching the drops from his hair fall to the smooth, glassy surface of the water, creating ripples that sent made his reflection waver in a distorted dance. The flickering, writhing image of himself certainly seemed a more accurate representation, giving the way his insides were twisting in on themselves.

He grimaced and liberally splashed himself with more of the rapidly cooling water, scrubbing at skin that had already been rubbed raw with his attempts to get the witch's scent off of him. It was late—he didn't know how late, but the castle had at last fallen quiet, the yards and campsite beyond having finally stilled, resting in preparation for the march to Denerim in the morning.

His room was dark, the hearth along the wall cold. Everyone had anticipated, rightly enough, that he had planned to stay with Lyna, despite Eamon's attempt at propriety in giving him his own space. He wanted to be there now, wanted to wrap himself around her and lose himself in the simple feel of her against him, but he was, quite simply, afraid. He didn't know how she was going to react to this, and didn't think he could survive if he went to her only to have her look at him with scorn reflected in her beautiful eyes.

He went through the motion of washing himself again, his breath coming in short, heavy gasps, his limbs trembling in something like panic. For the first time in is life, he was furious at Duncan for doing this to them, for not warning them of what could happen. He should have been prepared. He should have been able to steel himself against this. He would have…

He sighed and closed his eyes, a flood of calm cooling his boiling blood. He would have fallen in love with her, anyway, consequences be damned.

When the door opened, he knew without looking that it was her. She didn't speak, simply walked up and pressed herself into the curve of his back, her arms coming around his waist. He nearly crumbled at her touch, relief filling him until it was almost painful. He turned in her arms, gently lifting her chin with his fingers to look into her eyes. He was startled to find them swollen, fine red lines webbing at the corners.

She had been crying.

The knowledge was more than he could stand, that this proud, fierce woman that had faced the whole of Ferelden at its worse had been reduced to tears because of him. He didn't have the words to tell her what he was feeling, doubted the words that he needed even existed. Instead, he reached behind him and picked up the dagger still on his belt. He was fairly certain that even among the Dalish, this sort of thing required a proposal of some sort, but he still didn't trust himself to speak. His hands fumbled only slightly as he dragged the blade along the center of his palm.

Lyna gazed at him, her eyes wide, before she took it and inflicted an identical injury on her own hand. She pressed her palm into his, trembling, before she fell against him, her hot tears falling across his skin even as their blood ran down his arm.

"Never again," he swore around the knot in his throat, kissing her hair, her temple, the tears from her cheeks. "Only you."

He felt her nod, her voice still thick as she whispered, "Until the end, _emma sa'vhenan_."

…

"You're going to get an infection."

Alistair continued loading up the cart without looking at Wynne, trying very hard not to sigh over what he knew was honest concern. "It's bandaged. Leave it."

"And still spotting. It's obviously deep. I don't understand why you suddenly have this aversion to letting me help you. Lyna, too. She nearly bit my head off when I offered to heal her this morning." Wynne regarded him suspiciously. "Should I even ask why you two have identical injuries?"

"Probably not." He didn't like putting Wynne off, but he also didn't want to hear her opinion of his relationship with Lyna. And he certainly didn't plan to take any chance that she'd keep the wound from scarring. He vowed to himself that he would wear that mark for the rest of his life, no matter what happened with the archdemon.

Wynne was still shaking her head at him. "You're being very evasive."

"Or perhaps he is too polite to tell you that it's none of your concern." Alistair glanced up to see Morrigan on the other side of the cart, watching the scene with mild interest. "Regardless, Lyna is searching for you. I would suggest you allow Alistair to finish serving as the arl's common laborer in peace."

Wynne wandered off, muttering to herself. Alistair turned to Morrigan, torn between being grateful and annoyed by the expected jibe. The witch studied him through heavy-lidded eyes. "I certainly hope you know what you are about, Alistair. I should be very displeased if you treat this matter with your usual capriciousness."

He didn't answer, just stood there gaping like an idiot as she strolled away.

Maybe he wasn't the only one who had come to care for Lyna, after all.

…

The archdemon reared back and roared, a deafening sound that shook the entire rooftop, sending the lesser darkspawn scattering in fear. Alistair was already positioned for safety when it came down, darting to the edge of the rooftop to avoid being crushed by the beast. The massive body meeting stone still knocked him to the ground, shuddering through the stones beneath his feet. He picked himself up with a groan, his eyes immediately seeking the tiny archer in the chaos that reigned around them.

The dragon was dying, its breath coming in great, shallow gusts as it writhed, fighting to stand. Lyna met his eyes over the heaving reptilian body. She had been forced to stay back for most of the fight, making use of her bow. She stood as though rooted, covered in dirt and blood, her chest heaving and her eyes wide. He imagined he didn't look much better. He gripped his sword, trying to decide just how much faith he had in Morrigan.

It didn't take him long to decide—none at all.

They broke at the same moment, each sprinting for the sluggish form of the archdemon. Alistair had the advantage of being closer, and his longer stride promised he would reach the beast before her. Then suddenly a tearing pain went through his calf and he stumbled, his momentum nearly rolling him into the archdemon's flank. He looked down to see a feathered shaft protruding from his leg.

"Oh, no you _don't_." He reached down and, gritting his teeth, broke the arrow off before shoving himself to his feet. He didn't pause—didn't have time—before he brought his sword around in a powerful arc that severed the dragon's spine.

The world went solid white, a wave of energy jolting through his system like a bolt of lighting, the blinding light devouring all sight and sound, except that of Lyna's devastated scream ringing in his ears.

…

Being dead probably didn't hurt this much.

It was the first thought he had as consciousness slowly began to return to him, bringing with it enough pain to have him groaning, uncaring of who might have been around to hear it. He was aware of cold stone beneath him, making his armor dig into his back in a way that he really didn't need with all the other aches clamoring to make themselves known. He shifted, aware of someone hovering near him.

"Lyna..."

"Lay still, _emma lath. _Wynne is coming."

He opened his eyes. Lyna was right next to him, her legs curled beside her, sitting with his head pillowed in her lap. Tracks of tears streaked through the filth on her face—they glittered on her long, sooty lashes and shone in her eyes, but she was smiling. Alistair didn't think he'd ever seen anything so beautiful in his life.

He tried to move, but pain shot through him, and he winced. "You're not too mad at me, are you?"

"Yes." She sniffed, running gentle hands through his hair. "I am not accustomed to being thwarted."

"I noticed." He gestured weakly to the arrow embedded in his leg. "That hurt, you know."

"Clearly, not enough. I would apologize, but I would do it again, so I must not be overly sorry."

He laughed, wincing when the action brought the pain flaring back to the surface, but he couldn't seem to stop smiling. "You didn't take it out on me while I was unconscious, did you? I feel like I maybe could've been pummeled with tiny fists."

"I did not, though you well deserved it." She blinked, wiping her eyes, her other hand moving to clutch his. "Never frighten me like that again."

Alistair reached up and smoothed back her hair, drowning in the love that spilled from her eyes. "I promise."

...

Amaranthine was _cold_.

Alistair made his way across the muddy courtyard and ducked in through the side door, grumbling that Anora couldn't have at least waited until spring to make her grand gesture. He should have realized that a gifted arling was a very neat and clean way to kick him and his woman out of her castle as soon as possible.

The journey itself had been a bit of a nuisance, coming at the tail end of autumn, but at least the keep was filled with fires and blankets and warm bricks—which turned out to be a handy thing, since Lyna's claustrophobia insisted that she sleep with the shutters at least cracked even when it was _snowing _outside. Alistair might have complained harder about that, but the feel of her pressed tightly against him at night as she tried to stave off the chill more than made up for it, in his mind.

That Anora had decided to make the trip herself in the dead of winter was the first sign that he wasn't going to care for this visit.

She came with the pretense of checking in to see how the Grey Wardens were progressing in their rebuilding, but he wasn't falling for that. Anora couldn't care less about the Wardens—she had been more than happy to leave everything up to him and Lyna to decide, effectively washing her hands of the organization as well as the man who commanded it.

She waited until the last day before she finally got the point of the intrusion, taking Alistair aside as her men milled about in the yard, readying for the journey back to Denerim. "Before I take my leave, I would like to speak to you in private, if it's possible, and without formality."

He sighed. Nothing good would come of this—he was sure of it.

She waited until she he had led the way back to his study, making a great show of studying the intricate stonework that framed the hearth. "You may have heard that there are some difficulties in Denerim."

He crossed his arms. 'Difficulties' was a bit of an understatement. Anora was on the verge of having a full-on revolt on her hands, if the rumors could be believed. Although her ascent to the throne had been peaceful enough, her decisions in spending the coin to erect a monument to her father was greeted less than enthusiastically by the starving populace. "I've heard something about it."

"There are those who seem to think that they would have been better off throwing in their lot with another candidate."

He shrugged. "The Blight has taken its toll on everyone, your Majesty. Resources are scarce. Once the spring comes and the healing can begin, the people will settle down to a degree." He met her eyes evenly. "One might suggest that you do whatever is in your power to ensure they have the means to survive the winter."

She hesitated, running delicate fingers along a patch of knotted design. "Of course. But Arl Eamon offered another solution, to assist in raising moral for the time being."

Alistair didn't even have to ask. "No."

She raised one perfectly arched brow at the quick answer. "Is the thought so displeasing to you?"

_Yes_. "I'm a married man, Anora."

She looked startled. "I had heard nothing of this."

"Well, you wouldn't have. We followed Dalish tradition. There wasn't exactly time during the Blight to put together color schemes and seating arrangements."

"I see." She paused. "Well, it's not _technically_ a legal bind. If you should want to, you could make provision—"

Alistair masked the violent flash of fury quite well, he thought. "I think you're better off leaving that sentence right there, don't you?"

Something in his tone must have warned her off. "I suppose." She sighed, pulling the fur-lined hood of her cloak up over her hair. "It was only a thought, and a far-fetched one, at that. I can settle the clamoring another way." She gave him an icy look. "I'm sure I don't have to ask you to keep this conversation between us."

No worries there. "Of course, your Majesty."

"Very good. Farewell, then, Warden Commander."

"Safe journey, your Majesty." _May you catch a dreadful cold and look blotchy for days, you presumptuous hag._

…

"Will you marry me?"

Lyna glanced up from where she sat on the floor of their chamber, dressed only in one of his linen shirts as she sifted through a pile of letters. She raised an eyebrow at him. "We are already bonded, at my last observation."

"No, I know that, but... would you like to, anyway? Make it official in the eyes of the law, as well?"

She pursed her lips, setting aside her work to give him her full attention. "What brings this on?"

"Speaking with Anora, I suppose." For a moment he considered telling her of Anora's offer, but quickly decided if the Queen of Ferelden's body was found bristling with arrows, it might put a damper on the honeymoon. He'd tell her later, when Anora was safely back in Denerim. "She got me thinking."

Lyna got up and crawled onto the bed with him, climbing onto his lap with her arms draped around his neck. "Tell me."

He grimaced. "She just made it clear to me that very few people in Ferelden will consider you my wife, as things stand."

"The Wardens do. You do. Who else matters?" Something of the doubt he felt must have shown on his face, because her eyebrows drew together. "Is it so important to you?"

"To me? Not especially." He lay back against the pillows, idly running his hands along her bare thighs. "I just don't want you to feel like I'm ashamed of you. There's no reason to hide what you mean to me."

To his surprise, she laughed, a sound of genuine amusement. "I have my doubts that you could do any such thing, _emma lath_. You are not overly skilled in subterfuge." She smiled, running her hand through his hair. "Alistair, if you had no regard for my feelings at all, I would likely scorn you, but there is no reason for this. We know the truth. I am yours, heart and soul, just as you are mine, and that is all that matters. I truly don't wish to get tied up by politics or status or anything else these ridiculous nobles seem to think so important."

He smiled, shifting a bit so she could crawl over him. Her dark hair was loose and flowing over her shoulders, brushing against his skin as she settled at his side. He reached over, tucking a soft strand behind her ear. "_Ma'arlath_," he whispered.

"And I love you." She smiled when his hands began to slide up her back. "Besides, I do not believe it would be prudent to your position to have your mate argue with a Revered Mother about which deities she invoked for the ceremony. The Chantry seems rather rigid in that regard."

"Stubborn bastards." He drew her more securely against him, watching the way her eyes sparkled in the light of the dancing fire, feeling warm and content and, for the first time in his life, like he was _home_.

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**The End**


End file.
